


Upon Waking

by Sookiestark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 11:18:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10410972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sookiestark/pseuds/Sookiestark
Summary: Tyrion has been injured and slowly wakes to find someone at his bedside.





	

He was dying or he was recovering from almost death. Tyrion had known pain and he had known weakness his whole life, but not since the Battle of Blackwater Bay had he known this weird limbo sense of free-floating consciousness and constant, tiring, all-consuming pain. The desire to give into the darkness and rest would be so freeing, so peaceful. But he was a Lannister and he was his father’s son. He was not willing to give up so easily. There were still debts to pay, though he hoped he was a little closer to settling them.

He knew there was a maester who would come in and give him milk of the poppy. Even though it gave sweet sleep and a respite from the pain in his side and arm, he needed his wits and it dulled them. He wished to tell him no more, no more, but he did not know if he could make out the words. They were giving him some tea and broth, occasionally for his fevers and his chill.

He knew he must still be in the North, still at Winterfell. They had held the castle against the Others. The cold was biting when they removed the furs and changed his bandages. The fire was burning, but sometimes they would open the windows, and he could almost feel the cold on his lips. Tyrion imagined the snow falling gently. He hoped he would rise from this bed to feel it again on his face. His Queen needed him, A Hand is only useful when it can move and do as his Queen commands.

Her Grace would come every day. Sometimes in the morning and sometimes in the afternoon. He knew it was her because of her voice and her commanding tone. She would sit by his bed and speak in her commanding voice. Always a Targaryen, even at a deathbed. She would tell him of the losses and the gains, the refugees from the Wall and the Gift, the hungry and the children. He would concentrate to each word, trying to understand and hold it in his head. But by the end of each sentence, he could never remember what she had actually said. She would take his hand in hers before she left. Gently, her small fine-boned fingers chilled with the cold would squeeze his, “A Queen is only as strong and smart as her Hand. Wake up Tyrion.” 

This he would remember every time.

Her husband came once or twice and thanked him in his soft gravel voice, and then he would stand at the bed watching and silent. Tyrion realized he must be getting better when he started regaining his thoughts

There was someone else who was still there, always there. At first, he thought it was the fever dream, the wishes of a dying man. Some delusion to calm and assure the dying. As the pain got sharper and the thoughts became clearer, he was certain it was her. He wondered if Jon had convinced her, or the Queen demanded it of her. It could be the damned Stark loyalty and honor. It could be pity.

She was a vision of black and grey with her long red hair in a braid. She would sing children’s songs, lullabies, and hymns as she changed his bandages or bedding. She would give him water and broth. She would call orders around to any servants in the room to stoke the fire. She would leave for hours at a time, but she would always come back at night. She would sit in the night with her sewing in her lap, singing songs absentmindedly. Sometimes, she would bring books from the library that she thought he might like and read them out loud to him. She would giggle or pause and make comments about why she thought he would find it interesting. It would get late and she was tired. Eventually, he would feel her take his hand in hers and she would thank him. Tonight the words she spoke “My Lord, please wake up... The Queen needs you. My brother... Jon .. he needs you. The Seven Kingdoms need a cunning Lannister. Please wake.”

He couldn’t imagine why she would be there but he always felt calmer when she would come. He had done something foolhardy and brave. The Giant of House Lannister. It was all those books he had read as a child that had affected him, given him a flair for the dramatic. He believed deep inside he might be a romantic and that he had cruel, unrealistic dreams of being someone’s Knight, risking everything for a token and a kiss. He knew he was no knight and no one would ever love a dwarf.

Being the Queen’s Hand had given him false hope, and his pride had filled him leading him to act impulsively and he was almost split in two.

Taking all his will, he cracked open an eye, his black one, and coughed out, “Sansa.”

She squeezed his hand and called out, “The Hand of the Queen has awoken. Get the Maester. Get the Queen.” 

“My Lord, have some water.” She helped him lift his head to drink a sip of water.

“Sansa, please call me Tyrion.” 

She looked at him and laughed, her whole face smiling, “It is good to see you awake Tyrion.”

“Am I dying?”

“Why? Are you in pain? Do you feel weak?

“Because I have never woken to my hand in yours..”


End file.
